“Spencer Jones is a player, everything he does is across the tabloids.” He sips his champagne. “All coochies need to be held in. Unsightly things in evening wear.”
I giggle. “How many coochies have you seen through evening wear?”
“Too many to count, hideous mounds. Oh . . .” He lets out a low whistle. “And here comes Sebastian Garcia.”
I frown, and glance over. I definitely know the name of the prime minister of the United Kingdom. “Maybe they’re just seated together?”
“No, they’re acting like long-lost friends.”
I look around at all the beautiful people, so many gorgeous dresses. Imagine what it must be like to come to swanky events like this all the time.
“Oh, look,” Daniel whispers. “He spotted you.”
“Who?” I sip my drink.
“Elliot Miles.” He smiles darkly. “And . . . he likes what he sees.”
“What?” I frown.
“He’s eyeing you up and down.”
“What?” My eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s fucking checking you out.”
“Well, he won’t see anything,” I whisper. “Because my coochie is buried under the tightest underwear on earth.”
Daniel chuckles and taps his glass on mine. “Touché.”
“Where are we seated?” I ask.
“He’s coming over.”
“What?”
“With his brother.”
Oh no.
“Kate.” I hear a voice from behind me.
“Tristan.” I smile.
He kisses both my cheeks. “Holy shit, when did you get so hot?” He laughs. “You look incredible.”
I glance over his shoulder to Elliot standing there; he gives me a stifled smile with a curt nod. He’s not friendly like his brother.
“Tristan, this is Daniel. Daniel, this is Tristan.” They shake hands.
“Elliot, this is Daniel. Daniel, this is Elliot.” Elliot gives him a nod and shakes his hand.
No smile, no greeting.
Eesh . . . awkward.
“I’m going to the bar,” Daniel says.
“I’ll come,” Tristan replies, and they walk off together.
Oh no.
My eyes float to Elliot as he stares at me; there’s this awkwardness between us. “Have you come to make fun of me dressed like this?” I ask.
“On the contrary, I came over to tell you that you look beautiful, but I’ll take it back now. You obviously don’t want to hear it.”
I grip my champagne glass so tight that it might smash in my bare hands.
“Is he your boyfriend?” he asks.
“Um.” I glance over to Daniel and Tristan at the bar. “Friend.”
Elliot’s eyes hold mine. “What kind of friend?”
“Not . . . that kind.”
He nods once. “I see.”
“Is your . . . girlfriend here?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Wife?”
“No,” he replies curtly.
“Oh.”
An awkward silence falls between us and I see the muscles in his jaw clench as if he’s uncomfortable too.
“Excuse me while I go to the bathroom.” I smile.
He nods once.
“Lovely to see you, Mr. Miles.”
“Elliot.” His eyes hold mine. “Likewise.”
Our gaze holds for a few seconds longer than it should.
What’s going on here?
He’s different.
The night has been a whirlwind. I haven’t laughed so much for as long as I can remember. We’ve danced and drunk and Daniel has schmoozed with the women he needs to style and I’ve had a wonderful time. It’s late and the night is coming to an end.
“Home time.” He smiles as we sway to the music, then he looks across the room. “Kate . . . what is going on with you and your boss?”
“Nothing, why?”
“He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff, but I do have to admit, every time I look Elliot’s way, he’s already looking at me. “He is not.”
“I’m telling you, darling, I can read men’s minds.”
I giggle. “And what is his mind saying?”
“It’s saying that he’s going to bend you over his desk and fuck you hard.”
I giggle again. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s so unusual.”
“What is?”
“Do you know the kind of women he usually dates?”
“No, and I don’t care.”
“Darling, you really need to keep up to date on current events. Don’t you read the tabloids?”
“No, and I’m appalled that you do.”
“He dated an acclaimed opera singer, an author, a humanitarian lawyer. He never dates run-of-the-mill women, and he wants you.”
“Should I be flattered to be the run-of-the-mill woman, then?”
“You know what I mean.” He gives me a cheeky wink.
I burst out laughing and he spins me around. I lock eyes with Elliot Miles and he gives me the best come-fuck-me look I have ever seen.
Our eyes lock and for a moment, time stops.
My stomach flutters and I snap my eyes away.
What the fuck was that?
It’s late Tuesday night. I make a cup of tea and sit it on my bedside table, begin to flick through my phone, and click on the dating app.
You’ve got mail.
What?
I open the chat box and read the message.
Dear Miss Leroo,
You do sound very tempting indeed. Nevertheless, I have an allergy to cats and with twelve of your own, dating you is an impossibility.
My best advice is to go outside and look to the ground, there you will find your one true love, although as we both know, dating a shadow would have its own obstacles.